bruises are pretty imo

having to repeatedly clean and irrigate a wound to stave off infection

debriding a burn

dressings that stick and tug every time they’re changed, no matter how gently

packing a wound

applying antiseptic ointment

having to reopen an infected wound to drain it

simply having to touch and manipulate an injury in order to treat it

Whumptober 2021 @whumptober2021​

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(Last chance, skip this if blood’s gonna freak you out.)

So this is and is not Spoilers for my story Captured.

Nor is it an entirely literal depiction of what happened to Harrow-

But if you could see Magic, this is literally what happened to Harrow.

Warlocks and Holy Relics do not mix.

Please do not take this art and stick it anywhere else. Reblogs Very Welcome!

Like…

• A warning shot just between two legs, or in front of Whumpee’s feet just as they meant to take a step forward (or back).

• “Don’t move.” <3

• When the defiant Whumpee who was a second away from attacking (or running!) just completely freezes up.

• For Whumpers with excellent aim, make a shot so close to Whumpee´s head that they can hear the bullet whistling by.

• In that sense: A Whumpee brought to their knees, gun against their head yet they still won´t cooperate so just give ‘em a little warning by firing the gun right next to their ear. They just… might not be able to hear your demands after…

• Or fire in the direction of that pesky Caretaker, making your Whumpee freak out, only to see the hole in the wall right next to their friend.

• With that said; firing blanks. Aim right at them.

• Just… warning shots 👏

Or other near misses:

• A knife aimed just next to their hand.

• Upgrade: A knife thrown at them and hits the wood next to them with a twoing.

Dash is kinda dead so...

A song played low in the radio, filling the silence between the vehicle’s two occupants, though nether were listening. The highway was empty, as roads tended to be at 3am, save the occasional truck lumbering in the right lane. 

Their hands shifted on the steering wheel, sweaty, numb from how tightly they’d been squeezing. Their eyes shifted to the rear view mirror for the thousand time, as if the intruder in the back seat would disappear, as suddenly as they’d appeared. 

In fading baths of light, the interstate lights silhouetted their figure. Exposing a sharp jaw line, inky black clothes, and of course, the gun in their right hand. The intruder was seated with their back to the door, legs thrown over the backseats. A glowing cigarette raised to their lips by the hand not holding the gun. As much as the driver hated people smoking in their car, it was the least of their worries right now. 

As if they could feel their attention, the intruder looked up, meeting their eyes in the mirror. 

“Eyes on the road.” 

On command, the driver’s eyes darted back to the highway stretching endlessly before their headlights.

“Wh-where,” their voice cracked, the leather steering wheel creaked as their hands twisted. They cleared their throat. “Where are we going?” 

There's no "I'm doing this for your own good sweetheart." but instead a "because I want to."

There's no "Darling you chose this, I don't want to do this but your behavior demands otherwise" but instead a "I enjoy hurting you."

CW: Sick whumpee, vampire whumpee, blood drinking, vague implications of past sadistic/creepy whumper, dehumanization, vague tooth/mouth whump (nothing direct, but aftermath)

Sort of a sequel to this piece, part of the Vampire Chris AU

"What hurts?" He keeps his voice low, and carefully doesn't hesitate before he lays a hand over the vampire's forehead. Of course it feels lukewarm, room temperature, but he still goes through the motions of feeling for a fever. It's muscle-memory, instinct, and he keeps forgetting Chris is dead.

He has been dead for a long time, if his occasional comments on what sounds like Prohibition are true.

"Bones," Chris whimpers, twisting where he lays in Jake's bed. There's a bright flush in his cheeks from the blood he'd drained from the two men who broke into the house. Those odd eyes glitter, overbright. "My... m'bones hurt, Jake."

His mouth opens, pulling air in over his tongue and down his throat in soft pants, and Jake is reminded that vampires don't sweat. Not the same way, anyway, although with enough blood they can, in thin sheens of pink-tinged liquid that are even more alarming than their tears.

His fangs are visible this way, razor-sharp canines that come down further than the rest of his teeth, a brighter white than all the others from being pulled and regrowing so many times.

Jake swallows against his nervousness, brushing hair away from the vampire's forehead. His slit pupils are dilated, taking up too much of the iris, and he tells himself that Chris is as scared as he is of the instincts that drive him, barely understands them.

Vampires aren't animals - but when they don't understand themselves, they act like it sometimes.

"Do you think maybe those guys were on something? Like, a drug maybe?" He pets through Chris's hair, fingercombing his hair, and watches Chris's eyes flutter closed.

It's hard not to feel more than a little reassured not having to look at them any longer. Which makes him feel guilty, considering this not-a-kid kid just beat up people for hurting him.

Killed them, his brain whispers. Killed them like he could kill you.

"May, maybe," Chris mumbles, and pants again.

His gums seem oddly dark, where normally they're pale, and Jake frowns. He wishes now he knew more about vampire physiology, that he'd paid more attention in class when they took the safety courses on how to avoid them.

There's not exactly a class on caring for one - not unless you can afford to purchase them outright.

"Well, when you were-... uh, before you found us... did you ever feel like this?"

Chris's eyes blink slowly back open and he nods. "Sometimes. My, my, my, my-... someone would, um, take something before, before the party, and I'd..." He groans and shudders. Jake can see the pain move through his body as he trembles nearly violently. "I'd feel like, like, like this after... for hours..."

"Okay. So... probably you just have to let this get worked out of your system, right? Or... is there a medicine?"

"No... just... just drink more." Chris looks up at him, eyes so wide and sad and scared and hurting, and grabs onto his wrist with one hand. Those cool fingers are never not a little startling, colder than the air around them, than the rest of his body.

Vampires have poor circulation, Jake knows, even when they're filled up on a fresh meal. He's seen Chris heal his own wounds before with his tongue, had him explain that they don't heal on their own with time if they're on hands or feet.

"Chris-"

"You, you, you, you-... can, um, you can take my teeth after. You can. I'll hold still. I'll, I'll be good." Chris's plea is barely a whisper.

His nails, which must have been a little too long when he was killed and turned, dig painfully into Jake's wrist in his desperation.

"I'll be so, so, so so so so good, Jake. So good for you, and then, you can, you you you can take my teeth-... Sir always liked it, it makes me me me cry, we we cry blood, Sir liked to take photos of it-"